


Eighty Three Cents

by Fly09Fire



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Based on a True Story, Bellarke, F/M, Family, Homelessness, Linctavia - Freeform, Modern AU, Second Chances, Slight Clexa, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7850425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fly09Fire/pseuds/Fly09Fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She walked past him after every shift at the Pharmacy. He’d stare despondently ahead, dark eyes seeing nothing while the people walking by pretended not to see him.</p><p>At first Clarke was the same. He’d be sitting at the corner between Burrad and Davie, a ceramic bowl clutched in his hands that he kept his begged for change in. His hair was shorter back then, but the months had turned it grimy, shaggy around his shoulders, the grease adding a shine to the bedraggled dark locks. The clothes he’d find were puckered with holes and he had no shoes, then or now, so he’d sit cross-legged and periodically shift his legs to keep his feet from freezing. He had no dog, no cart full of whatever he could pick up or cardboard sign begging for coins.</p><p>The only things that never changed were that corner and the bowl.</p><p>Same bowl. Same corner.</p><p>Fifty two weeks. Coming and going. Always the same corner.</p><p>It was on week eighty four that he finally spoke to her.</p><p>// Based on the true story of my encounter with a Homeless man, and the events that changed lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Black Card

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone. This is an idea I've been kicking around for a while now and thought I'd finally share. This is based on the true story of an encounter I had with a homeless man a few years ago, and the events that transpired afterwards. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it

She walked past him after every shift at the Pharmacy. He’d stare despondently ahead, dark eyes seeing nothing while the people walking by pretended not to see him.

At first Clarke was the same. He’d be sitting at the corner between Burrad and Davie, a ceramic bowl clutched in his hands that he kept his begged for change in. His hair was shorter back then, but the months had turned it grimy, shaggy around his shoulders, the grease adding a shine to the bedraggled dark locks. The clothes he’d find were puckered with holes and he had no shoes, then or now, so he’d sit cross-legged and periodically shift his legs to keep his feet from freezing. He had no dog, no cart full of whatever he could pick up or cardboard sign begging for coins.

The only things that never changed were that corner and the bowl.

She’d walk past him. She’d do everything anyone new to a city would do. She’d quicken her pace and hold her bag closer as she hurried by, doing everything in her power to avoid eye contact. She only ever saw him going home from the Pharmacy. It was the only time she went to that part of town, her college schedule keeping her closer to the city centre throughout most of her week. Being a pre-med student stretched her pretty thin, she didn’t leave her apartment much other than for work, or the occasional group study session. But she rarely went to those anyway. The other students talked over lecture recordings, ordered food that would leave grease stains on her study notes. They were a distraction, a fresh perspective at best, so Clarke persisted through each group session.

The weeks turned into months, then the first year moulded into the second. Her schedule didn’t change much, and she settled into a routine. Her hurried pacing slowed down, walking by the man on the corner like he was another mailbox or street sign. He found new clothes every few weeks. Never shoes. He grew a beard once. It came in patchy before sprouting, matching his dark hair. He’d hacked it away a few weeks later.

Same bowl. Same corner.

Fifty two weeks. Coming and going. Always the same corner.

It was on week eighty four that he finally spoke to her.

She was waiting for the crosswalk to turn green. The streets were almost bare, as they usually were on her walk home from the evening shift, especially as summer rolled into colder months. Flu medicine sales would soon be rising. She’d have to start making half off signs.

Her foot tapped impatiently. The bag of mini donuts and chicken ramen she’d bought at the seven eleven a block down bounced against her leg. Were they making these things slower? Clarke was sure that they were.

“Excuse me, miss?”

Clarke turned. It was the first time she’d seen him standing, and he towered over her. Despite all the times she’d walked by him, noticed his changes and lack of, the first thing her senses registered was the smell. This was the only time he’d ever been close enough for her to catch a whiff, and he smelt like stale garbage that got stuck to the bottom of the can. The only reason she didn’t recoil was because she would of fallen off of the curb if she did.

His chest was barely covered by a vest three sizes too big for him, drooping to expose skin tanned by the summer sun. She hoped he’d be able to find something to keep him warm during winter, or at least something that fit him properly.

“Yes?” she asked, despite all her instincts not to engage him.

“Do you know The Keg?” the man asked.

Clarke shook her head. As the man opened his mouth again, she carried on over him. “I-I just moved here a year ago for college. I don’t know the area well outside the Chinese takeout on my block.”

The man smiled at her joke, teeth stained. “I don’t need directions. Do you like steak?”

“I love steak,” Clarke replied instantly, blushing at her eagerness. She hadn’t been able to afford anything close to a steak since she started college, unless cheap cheeseburgers counted.

The man’s smile widened, his weathered skin crinkling around his eyes. They sparkled with something, something that looked like happiness. “The Keg is a steakhouse. A lady outside gave me this.” He produced a sleek black card from his pocket, holding it face up. It was a gift card, still in its original two pieces. A fifty dollar gift card. “I can’t use it. They won’t let me inside looking like, well...” He gestured to himself, shrugging in a self deprecating way. “Do you want it?”

The crosswalk turned green. A woman bustled past, walking between the two people but only excusing herself to one of them.

Clarke’s jaw dropped. He held out the gift card and she grabbed for it. She flipped it over. The back was clean, the card number still protected by the metal seal you scratched off to activate the card. It looked impeccable, and the excitement built in Clarke’s stomach at the thought of her first steak dinner in months.

“Thank you!” she breathed, looking up from the gift card to the homeless man. He was still smiling at her, soft and pleased. She spied ribs peaking against his skin, and felt the rush of excitement fade into a guilty gratitude. She didn’t have much to offer, but she wanted to try. “Do you want some donuts?” she asked, opening her bag. Would he prefer plain or chocolate glazed?

“Actually I’d really prefer a few dollars.” Clarke’s hand stilled. When she looked up, the man’s smile had turned earnest and pleading. “Just enough for a hostel,” he amended quickly.

Clarke paused, feeling uncomfortable. She’d always been told not to bother with strangers, with the homeless people only looking to score drugs. Her mother had taught her to be sensible. But her father had always taught her to see the good in people. This man could easily sell this for more, and yet he only wanted a few dollars for it. She should consider herself lucky he ran into her instead of someone else. But she knew her wallet by weight more than content, and it was perpetually light. She had some coins, maybe a few dollars worth, but that was a loose maybe.

And one twenty dollar note.

He must of read the reluctance on her face, his own crumpling, looking pathetic in his pleading. “A hostel is like five bucks.”

Lost, Clarke opened the change compartment of her purse. her fingers sifted through the coins. A dollar seventy five and a Canadian dollar she kept for luck. She dumped the contents into the man’s palm.

He looked up at her, disappointment heavy in his eyes. “That gift card is fifty dollars.”

Clarke’s heart sank the same moment her cheeks flared in embarrassment. “I-I don’t have anything smaller. Anything else would be ridic-” she stammered before cutting herself off.

“I have change,” the man said quickly, and produced five dollars and a few coins, adding to Clarke’s pile. “I literally need only a few dollars. I want a roof. I just want a shower, I want to be clean.”

Cheeks aflame, a hot choking feeling gripping her throat, Clarke pulled the twenty out of her purse and hurriedly swapped it for the change. It was only ten dollars, what could be the harm? Especially for a fifty dollar steak dinner. And, if Clarke was being completely honest, she wanted to get this over with as fast as possible.

The man’s face lit up, and Clarke’s embarrassment faded considerably. “Thank you so much. You’re a saint.”

“I’m a pre-med student,” Clarke said, flushing for a whole new reason.

The man chuckled shortly, pocketing her twenty dollars. “I’ll let you be on then, Miss Pre-Med.”

Before she could reply the man turned and went back to his corner, plopping down on crossed legs. He picked up his ceramic bowl and began plucking coins from it, pocketing them as well.

The crosswalk turned green again. Clarke turned and hurried across before she could miss it once more. As she hurried up her street, she looked over her shoulder. The man was gone from his corner, the ceramic bowl sitting on its own, until he hurried back and snatched it from the floor, clutching it possessively. He noticed her watching him, and waved with the hand holding the bowl.

 

* * *

 

Clarke stood just inside the doors to the Keg, next to a till with a sign reading “Please wait to be seated” written fancily in white chalk. Rustic and classy all at once, with a heavenly, heady, meaty smell drifting through the kitchen doors. Clarke liked this place.

It had been three days since her encounter with the man on the corner. She hadn't seen him since, so he must of been able to get in that hostel. It made the pride in her chest swell. She'd done that, and maybe it would finally be a step in the right direction for him. He could leave his corner and start a real life. All because of her. She clutched her black gift card like a trophy. Maybe they'd let her keep it after it had been used, a memento of her good deed. 

Her hair was pinned up and she was dressed in a black dress that dipped in the back as well as the front and hugged her ribs and bust, but began to flare out at her waist and stomach. She anticipated needing room for this meal. A tight dress would be as useful as a bucket with a hole in the bottom., useless at its primal function. In this case, an unflattering waist line. She knew she was drawing eyes. She thought she’d be annoyed by the attention but truth be told it had been years since she’d had something to dress up for, or someone, and the flutter in her belly was anything but annoyance.

The waitress came over to the stand, smiling cheerily through pinched, made up cheeks. Clarke wondered how long the girl had been on shift for as she typed through the keys on the electronic board.

“Name?”

“Griffin,” Clarke answered, voice clipped and formal sounding against the girls chipper tone. She sounded like her mother, years ago when she would attend dinners and fundraisers. She scowled as memories of that lift tried to invade her brain, before quickly forcing a more relaxed smile to her lips as the girl found the reservation.

“Clarke Griffin for eight thirty,” she announced. She squinted at the screen, leaning forward slightly. “It says here you have a gift card.” Clarke nodded. “For security reasons, I need to  see the card.”

Clarke fished it out of her purse and handed it to the young woman. She took it and scanned it through the swipe system. Something beeped, a deep minor tone that dropped heavily in Clarke’s stomach. The waitress smiled awkwardly at her before trying again, producing the same note.

“I’m afraid it says this card has already been activated,” she said in a small voice that was used to being yelled over.

“What?” Clarke asked. A couple behind her coughed, the man hiding his chuckle poorly.

“This card has been used,” the girl clarified.

“But he said one of you gave this to him as a promotion,” Clarke stammered, her confusion and growing humiliation distorting her logic. This waitress wouldn’t know the ‘he’ she was talking about. Explaining herself, passing off the blame, just helped.

The waitress raised a sleekly trimmed eyebrow. “Who would hand out fifty dollar gift card promotions?”

Clarke couldn’t answer. She was dressed like a woman in control, but she felt like she was spiralling, slipping and falling past every hand hold. She had nothing to hold onto and nowhere to pass the blame.

The waitress seemed to pick up on her turmoil. She tapped something out, then walked out from behind the stand. “I’ve called the manager. If you could wait at the bar, we’ll try and sort this out.”

Clarke nodded, her brain numb, firing off different excuses, different reasons for her stupidity. She was overworked, stressed from school. Not thinking straight after a long shift. Before she knew it, she was sitting on a bar stool, staring at the deep rich wood.

He’d watched from his corner.

He’d approached her.

Every reaction ready and rehearsed.

And she’d given him every opening. He hadn’t needed to use a single line.

“Hey, lady!”

The harsh bark snapped Clarke out of her stupor. The man she guessed was the bar tender was glaring at her. Had he snapped his fingers at her? He must of, because when Clarke didn’t respond, he leaned over the bar and snapped them again in her face.

“What are you drinking? Or have you had enough already?” he grumbled, his voice so deep it could repair the glass an opera singer shattered.

“Excuse me?” Clarke asked, coming back from reeling at her own stupidity.

The barman, though he looked barely older than her, rolled his eyes. “Jesus.” He pulled up a short glass, poured in a shot of vodka then filled the rest of the glass with cranberry juice. He dropped it in front of her unceremoniously, some of the concoction spilling over the edge and onto his tanned fingers. “There.”

He then stomped off down the bar before she could protest, wiping his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder. Clarke watched him go, watched him lean across the bar and start chatting to a girl that was dressed like Clarke, made up like Clarke, only she responded to his charms. He was nice to her, especially when she tipped with a ten dollar note, a separate white sheet attached to it that the bartender slipped into his pocket.

Clarke turned back to her drink. She sipped it slowly, not even bothering to mix it, so she ended up sipping the vodka clean from the drink, left with the sickeningly sweet cranberry juice and time to mull over her stupidity once more.

This time she registered when another man approached her. He was made up, hair slicked back and suit spotless. Pristine to the point of looking like he’d stepped out of a printing machine. He had her gift card in his hands and a stern look on his face.

“Young lady,” he opened with, like she was a child being punished, and, if possible, Clarke’s heart sank even more. “Here at Keg we do not tolerate scam artists. Trying to pass off a used gift card as a creditable one could be seen as a criminal offence.”

Clarke’s heart leapt into her throat. She’d lose her college placements. She could be expelled. She’d be fired from her job. Arrested. Thrown in Jail. She wouldn’t survive in prison, she couldn’t pull a Piper Chapman.

“Fortunately, we are a forgiving restaurant.” The man in the suit sighed and flipped the card over. “Lucky for you, you left the scratch back untouched. That gives us reason to believe you didn’t attempt to change the authentication code. You were simply the victim of a vagabonds gambit.”

“What?” Clarke asked. Who talked like that?

“Means you were duped, Princess,” the bar tender laughed as he cleaned a glass.

“Your job is to serve drinks, not crack jokes,” the man in the suit snapped.

The bartender glared, but shut his mouth, moving back down the bar to serve the couple that had been standing behind Clarke in the foyer. The girl batted her eyes and touched his arm, all while her date stood right beside her. The bartender ignored him, smiling flirtily with the girl. Had he no shame?

“I’m sorry miss, but you can’t use this card here.” The man dropped the gift card on the bar top, then moved to walk away. He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “That drink wasn’t complimentary.”

He turned, disappearing into the hum of the restaurant.

Clarke moved, needing to lean on something, needing support in her moment of naive shame. She rested her elbows on the bar, bordering the fake gift card. As she stared at it, willing this humiliating night to disappear, a tanned hand snatched the gift card from the bar. She looked up to see the bartender smirking as he gripped the plastic edges. He made sure to catch her eye, then snapped the card in half.

“That’ll be six fifty for the drink, Princess,” he snickered, dropping the remains of the card into a trash can behind the bar.

Even more embarrassed than before, Clarke slapped her last ten dollars on the counter, then hurried out of the Keg as fast as her feet could take her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All this feedback has been awesome! I'm so glad you guys are interested in this story, as it's very important to me and the people involved. And, yes, before you ask, I have their permission to write this. They're actually as excited about your feedback as I am. In fact, my homeless man (No names, sorry) was rather surprised at the support shown for his side so early on. 
> 
> Some context for those following along.
> 
> A few years ago I fell for this scam. Lots of stuff happened in the wake of this even, for reasons you will see as Clarke remembers the lessons her father taught her: always believe in people. 
> 
> Hope you guys keep enjoying it!

Clarke  _really_  wished she hadn’t bragged about the gift card.

 

They’d been having a study sessions, their usual Thursday night, when Jasper had brought up finding an old Gameboy Colour on his walk home. He got all excited, saying he was going to put new batteries in it and buy all the old Pokemon’s (“And you guys know I’m talking about the real ones, not all this X and Y wannabe crap. Pokemon yellow forever!”).

Monty one upped him, saying how he’d found an entire iPod classic and was going to restore it and sell it on eBay (as slightly used). Harper giggled, sighing and wishing she could be so lucky, and asked Clarke if she’d stumbled upon anything.

“Uh... I found a fifty dollar gift card.” She didn’t know if mentioning the origin of the gift card was a good idea.

She’d chosen to trust the homeless man, believe in people, just like her father had taught her. But those lessons weren’t for the city. Her friends, well, the study group, were all from the city, where there was a homeless person on almost every block. The biggest homeless population Clarke had experienced growing up in her small hometown was one year when a travelling festival had come through and people camped out in the fields.

She felt bad of how ignorant she’d been of such a big problem.

“Fifty whole dollars?” Jasper asked, eyes wide.

“That’s more then I’m gonna get for the iPod,” Monty mumbled, looking at his lap and running his thumb over the cracked plastic screen.

“What’s it for?” Jasper babbled, ignoring his put-out best friend. “Video Games? iTunes? Steam?”

“Steam is video games,” Harper said, rolling her eyes. Jasper and Monty both turned surprised, wide-eyes on her. “What?”

“It’s for the Keg Steakhouse,” Clarke said, before Jasper could launch into how Steam was his safe haven from girls (not that a guy like Jasper needed a safe haven from girls. He was cute but... eccentric).

This time it was Harper’s turn to be excited. “That’s a fancy place, Clarke. I hear their appetizer’s are at least twenty dollars!”

“Jesus, how much do you think they charge for water?” Jasper grumbled, reaching for his cup of instant ramen, slurping a mouthful of noodles off a plastic fork.

Harper rolled her eyes at him. Jasper was the kind of guy who would spend a hundred dollars on an action figure he’d never take out of its box over a good meal any day. He called it living for the finer things. Harper called it playing with dolls.

“How did you get it?” Monty asked, trying to distract from the argument brewing between his friends.

Clarke hesitated. “I found it, coming back from work.”

Harper sighed, leaning back in her chair. “You guys get all the luck. Where’s my iPod or gift card?”

“Or Gameboy,” Jasper added, grinning playfully. Harper said nothing, staring up at the ceiling wistfully.

“I’ll trade you my iPod for it,” Monty offered, holding up the battered red music player. Clarke arched an eyebrow at it and Monty blushed. “It’ll look better once I restore it. I haven’t had a proper meal since college started, last year.”

“Seriously, dude? You’ll get tons from a collector for that,” Jasper said, shaking his head. “It’s just one meal guys. I don’t get it. She can only use that card once, I get to use this Gameboy whenever I want.”

“Don’t sound too jealous,” Harper teased, giggling when Jasper blushed and glared at her. “It’s not Clarke’s fault if she has taste.”

“Pokemon will always be a vintage class.”

Clarke smiled to herself as she studiously looked over her notes. She wasn’t one to brag, but that didn’t mean the attention wasn’t fun. Plus seeing Jasper get all flushed got Monty laughing, and that seemed to stretch Harper’s smile even wider.

“She found that card on the street,” Jasper pointed out, having to raise his voice over the laughter. “Who’s to say it hasn’t already been used?” 

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke really wished she’d taken what Jasper had said seriously. Instead she’d smiled when Harper had poked his cheek and called him a baby. He’d sulked in the corner, playing his Gameboy. Clarke had finished studying with the others, then gone home to a shower and her own cup of crappy noodles, all the while fantasising of her amazing steak dinner a few nights away.

What she should of been doing was getting up the Keg’s website and checking the cards balance using the authentication number on the back.

Mistakes had been made, leaving her humiliated and feeling stupid, and then having to come up with a fake story to save herself the embarrassment of telling her friends what had really happened. To her utter relief they bought that she’d lost the card on her way to the restaurant, though Jasper was smirking all through her story, nodding overtly and agreeing a little too easily. Either he was enjoying her failure as a person, or he’d figured out what had really happened. Either way, Clarke felt stupid.

 

* * *

 

 

Four days after the escapade at the restaurant, Clarke was walking home from work. It had been over a week since she’d seen the homeless man. He hadn’t been at his corner, holding his bowl and sitting on his feet to keep them warm. When she thought about him, she wondered if he was okay. Had he known that gift card had been used when he found it? Sometimes it felt all too coincidental that he’d had the card and then the change for her twenty dollars. He’d must of gone scrounging for hours trying to find an undamaged gift card.

It couldn’t of been worth it just to trick a girl out of ten dollars, could it?

That’s what Clarke chose to believe every time she passed the corner and he wasn’t there. He was in the hostel, showering. A shave would be a good idea for him, help him look a little less scruffy. He could probably look quite refined if he cleaned up a little bit, his weathered tan skin and dark hair, he’d be like an-

“Thank you, darling. You’ve given a grimy bastard like me reason to hope again.”

Clarke froze at the voice, just about to step off the curb, not realizing what street she’d come upon until she almost stumbled out onto the road trying to right herself.

Davie and Burrard.

She spotted him, leaning against a wall, hand to his chest as he passed something over to a young girl, seventeen maybe, in exchange for five dollars. The girl was beaming as she handed him the money, holding what he’d given her to her chest.

Clarke didn’t need three guesses to figure out what it probably was.

“It’s my pleasure,” she gushed, her cheeks flushed with the same pride Clarke had felt when the homeless man had praised her last week. “Anything to help those less fortunate than myself.”

The homeless man’s smile stretched thinly across his face. From her distance, eyes unclouded by greedy pride, Clarke realised the smile wasn’t grateful like she’d thought he’d been with her, but triumphant.

He’d scammed her. It hadn’t been an accident.

“And here I thought angels were just in heaven,” he said, winking at the girl. She blushed, moving back. He could charm a rabbi into buying prosciutto, but no amount of charm could cover up that smell.

The girl giggled as she turned, walking hurriedly away with flushed cheeks and a pleased, ‘I’m-such-a-good-person’ beam to her smile. As soon as her back was turned, Clarke watched as the smile dropped from the homeless mans cheeks. He rolled his eyes as he went back to where he’d left his bowl, not even sparing her a second glance, sitting on the floor, tucking the five dollars away where it couldn’t be seen before pulling on the pitiful expression Clarke and the other girl had fallen for.

It was a wonder this man had never made it as an actor.

Bitterness propelled Clarke across the street and over to him. He bowed his head, looking broken and despondent. He was the man she was used to seeing, the man she pitied and wanted to help. She almost paused, then pushed through, stopping so close she could of stomped on his bowl. The second her feet got too close, the man snatched the bowl from the floor, holding it to his chest.

“What the hell’s your prob-” He cut off when he looked up and caught sight of her. He pulled on a fake smile. “Why, hello there, young miss.”

“You’re a crook,” Clarke accused, her emotions on high.

The homeless man looked from side to side, then looked back up at her. The street was moderately occupied, people returning from their nine to five jobs. Plenty of pockets, plenty of ears.

“I’m a simple man trying to get by, miss,” he said, his face the picture of confused while a smirk hid behind his eyes.

“You stole my money,” Clarke pressed, glaring at him.

“Are you saying giving money to the homeless is like being stolen from?” the man asked, face mock-aghast. A man in a suit walked by. Hearing the words, he shot a glare at Clarke, then handed over a few dollar bills to the homeless man. He graciously thanked the suit. “At least there’s kindness somewhere in this world.” The suit walked away, and once again the smile dropped, the homeless man muttering, “Cheap bastard.”

Clarke’s jaw dropped.

He tucked the bills away with the five, then looked back up at Clarke. No one was nearby. He smirked at her appalled expression. “Never let them see when you got paper,” he said, a taunt disguised like a lesson. “They think you’re doing too well if they do. Plus, coins are louder.”

He shook the bowl, the contents clinking obnoxiously.

“You scammed me,” Clarke said.

The man nodded, looking smugly up at her. “That I did.”

“And you scammed that girl.”

“Yep.” He popped the P at the end.

“And you used me to con money from that man,” Clarke said, her voice rising.

The homeless man smirked up at her. “True, I should keep you around. You live around here? I see you almost every day.”

If possible, Clarke’s jaw dropped even further. “No,” she stammered, her voice rising even more. “I came here because I want my money back!”

The man widened his eyes. When he spoke his voice was louder than necessary. “Are you really demanding your money back from someone who is homeless?”

Clarke’s cheeks flamed in embarrassment. The man looked around again, searching out his next victim, but no one was close this time. He sighed and got up, spilling his change from the bowl into his hand, pocketing it before walking off.

Clarke followed as he headed for an alleyway. “I am not going to help you steal money from people.”

“I’m not stealing, kid.” The man stopped at a trash can, took the lid off and began to rummage. Clarke’s nose wrinkled at the smell, but the man continued, unaffected.

“You’re taking their money.”

“I’m not taking it, they’re giving it to me of their own free will,” he grumbled, shuffling around the can until his back was to her.

Clarke wouldn’t be ignored. She moved around the can so she was facing him again. “By lying to them.”

He lifted his head, an annoyed expression beginning to grow across his face. “Am I though? I’m on the street, aren’t I?” When Clarke folded her arms, he sighed, leaning his arms on the rim of the can. “Look, there’s lying, then there’s... convincing people to see the goodness in their souls, see?”

Clarke shrugged. “Yeah, I see. But you lied. You gave me a used gift card.”

The man smirked, going back to his rummaging. “Hit and miss that play, but you can’t beat a classic.”

His admission jarred her, her arms dropping to her sides. She was ready for a longer fight until he finally conceded his wrong doings. “So you admit it?”

“Course,” he laughed. “It’s always a thing of beauty when that play works. Girls like you always think you can fix bums like me. You wanna  _save_  us.” He laughed again and Clarke’s cheeks flamed.

“You’re nothing but a liar,” she hissed.

The homeless man smirked down at her.  “It’s called a hustle, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” Clarke spat.

_“The world is full of a lot of different people, Clarke. Some are lucky, like your mom and me. We have people like you to take care of us.” Her dad laughed when she puffed up with pride. “But there are some people out there who need help. That’s what your mom does every day at her job, and I do my best as well. But you don’t need to be a doctor to help people. Sometimes they just need you to believe in them, okay, sweetheart?”_

The man looked almost surprised at her venomous tone, but shook it off, chuckling. “My bad, I just assumed you came from some little homemade-slice-of-apple-pie cowpoke town where every little cutie loved to be called sweetheart.”

Clarke bristled. “Uh, no. I grew up here, just outside of the city.”

The man chuckled again, straightening up and moving off to a recycling bin. “Okay, tell me if this sounds familiar,” he said as he began to pick out empty cans and stack them beside the bin. His voice took on a mock excited tone. “Naive little kid with good grades and big ideas decides "Hey look at me, I'm gonna move to the City! Where I can go to school and everything will be bright and shiny and new and the world’s gonna be at my feet!"  Only to find, Uh-oh: it’s nothing like that. And that dream of becoming a, what I’m going to guess, doctor based on the uniform: double Uh-oh; she's a checkout girl at the pharmacy. And Uh-oh number three-o: no one cares about her or her dreams.” He turned around to look at her, standing at his full height. “And eventually she’s crushed under the pressures of school and work, ignoring everything and everyone close to her in her failing struggle to be the best doctor ever, until she eventually gives up and goes home to become... you’re from the country, that’s what you said? So how about a waitress at whatever local diner you have that’s famous for its homemade waffles?”

No one had ever talked to Clarke like that before. It left her stammering for words, nothing coming to mind. What could she say to something like that?

The man noted her silence and smirked again, brushing of his hands before scooping the empty cans off the floor. His arms full, he turned to go, calling over his shoulder, “That sound about right?”

Clarke started from being frozen, chasing after him to the edge of the alleyway. “Hey, no one tells me what I can or can’t be, especially some... some selfish homeless loser who never had the guts to try and be anything more!”

The man stopped, turned around. His face was blank. Clarke froze again, suddenly very aware that she was standing in an alleyway with a stranger who’d already stolen from her.

He stepped closer. His dank scent assaulted her like a landfill site, filling her senses, but she didn’t dare move as he glared into her eyes. “Look, Sweetheart, I got here on my own. My mistakes. You wanna know how those mistakes were made? From trying too hard. Everyone thinks if they try hard at life, life will give back. Well it doesn’t. All it will do is take. Your money, your life. All of it. Then you try harder, throw everything away as you try to make it, and you let the people you love down.” He paused, like he hadn’t meant to say that last part. He shook it off, clearing his throat. “The sooner you learn that, the sooner you can go home with at least a little dignity.”

Then he turned and disappeared down the street.

Clarke stood at the end of the alleyway, dazed and confused, but mostly once again overwhelmed by how stupid she’d just been. She’d followed him into the alleyway, a place no one could see them. He could of lured her down where no one would of heard her scream as he robbed and beat her, left her there, or taken her with him.

 Her hands were shaking as the sick scenarios played out in her head.

“He was never going to hurt you,” said a gruff voice, though Clarke remembered it sounding more hostile.

The man from the bar stood against the wall of the building beside her, arms crossed, his head lowered so that his black curls shaded the tops of his eyes. He was wearing the same uniform as last night, crisp black shirt with the top few buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and stiff looking black pants. Had he been standing there the entire time? Had he been watching them before they went into the alley?

“How would you kno-”

“And you’re stupid for thinking he would,” the man from the bar cut off. He pushed himself off the wall, right into her personal space. Her forehead reached his chin, tilted as he glared down at her with dark eyes. “No, you’re stupid for following him down there. Stupid for getting scammed in the first place.”

“I-I’m in college, you jerk,” Clarke stammered.

“On disability?” the man asked rhetorically.

Unlike with the homeless man, she didn’t freeze. She stepped into the man from the bar, refusing to be intimidated just because he was bigger than her. “And just how’d you know I was scammed?”

His eyes narrowed down at her, a muscle jumping under the skin as he clenched his jaw. “I just do. I’m good at knowing things.”

“And yelling at blondes, apparently,” Clarke said dryly.

The man from the bar sneered down at her. “Listen, Princess, cause I got something you need to hear.”

“Why do men like you and that bum keep trying to give me advice?” Clarke hissed, rolling her eyes.

The man from the bar stepped closer, backing Clarke into the wall. “I am  _nothing_ like that man,” he hissed. “and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from him.”

“Are you threatening me?” Clarke asked, determined to keep her voice steady.

His brown eyes, glazed and fiery with anger, blinked once. “I’m telling you. Keep your distance. You don’t want to get mixed up with someone like him.”

“How would you know?”

The man from the bar stared down at her for a long moment, unblinking. This close, Clarke could count endless dark freckles speckled across his cheeks. She felt like she might be able to count them all. She felt her cheeks warm at the thought and looked away. Her eyes settled on something pinned to his shirt.

A name tag: Hello, my name is John Murphy.

He finally let a breath out through his nose and stepped back. “I just do.”

He stalked away without another word.

Clarke didn’t stop him. She watched him reach the end of the street, cross, then disappear into the throngs of people coming the other way. She didn’t attempt to follow him, instead turning the opposite way, up town and towards her apartment, thoroughly hoping she’d never see either man again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are always welcome! Drop a comment any time to tell me what you think!
> 
> For those of you who will no doubt be confused about the whole John Murphy thing, I advise to just go with it for now. Wait for it....


	3. Let's Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback has been incredible and I'm actually loving what you guys have been guessing. All wrong, but please keep trying to guess!

Nine year old Clarke Griffin stepped up onto her family’s porch that stretched all the way around the front of their house, opened the front door, and plodded inside. The second her school bag hit the floor with a dejected thump, her dad was out of his study.

“What’s wrong, Sweetheart?” he asked, coming down the hallway, passing the white railing stairs.

“Nothing,” she mumbled, her head down.

Her father’s socked feet, shoes off because Mama didn’t want mud on the carpets, appeared in front of hers on the floor. He groaned, exaggerating his aching knees, trying to make her giggle, as he kneeled down before her.

She didn’t, her bottom lip clenched between her teeth to keep herself from doing so.

“C’mon Clarkie, tell me what’s got you all poutin’,” her dad said.

She could hear the smile in his voice, and when she looked up, he was trying not to look too amused at his daughter’s face. “I saw a man on the way home,” she mumbled.

Something flickered in his expression, turning his brown eyes a darker shade. It was there only for a moment, before he pushed it away. Clarke hadn’t been taught stranger danger yet to know why her gentle giant of a father had been so worried at the time.

“What did the man say?”

Clarke hesitated. She could feel him grow tenser and wondered what was going through his head. Had she heard a bad word? (she was in public school so she’d heard plenty). Had that man dared say something explicit to his baby girl? Clarke raised her head to look at her father. Her bottom lip trembled, her eyes watery and reserved. She was going to be in trouble.

Her dad put his hand on her shoulder, pulling her in closer. “Honey, it’s okay. You can tell me what he said.”

Clarke sniffed once, then met her father’s eye. “He asked me for my lunch money.”

He blinked. “Uh, Clarke, are you sure it wasn’t a kid at school? I know I had my fair share of bullies growing up.” He tried to smile encouragingly at her. “And I know how embarrassed I felt when they took my stuff. Made me feel weak for not being able to ke-”

Clarke shook her head, her blond curls swishing around her like a hurricane. “No, daddy, it wasn’t at school!” This time she put her hands on his shoulders, surprising, (but in no way disappointing) her dad at the authoritative gesture. “I was walking home. On the path, just like you always say I should. But this time a man was sleeping there, under the big tree.” She went a little quiet, then furrowed her brow and determinedly carried on. “I think he took your werewolf Halloween costume, cause his clothes were ripped.”

Her dad nodded along, letting her know he was listening to her story.

“I kept to the other side of the path, just like you taught me to do if I saw someone. But... but he called out to me. He asked if I could spare any change.”

Her father’s face melted into a soft smile, a huge contrast to Clarke’s pink cheeks from all the emotions she didn’t know how to express.

“I told him I only had my lunch money, but when he asked if he could have that, I told him I’d already spent it.” Her bottom lip began to wobble again.

“Did he say anything else to you?” her dad asked. Clarke shook her head, then found herself enveloped in her father’s arms. “It’s okay, Sweetheart. You did the right thing. Now, up we come,” he said, grunting as he straightened up, Clarke cradled against his chest.  

“Where are we going?” she murmured, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

“On a little walk.”

He patted his pockets, then left the house. He retraced Clarke’s steps, down the porch steps, across their large front yard and down onto the street. They walked the little ways down the road, then turned off into the fields.

“Am I going back to school?” Clarke asked from her curled spot in her father’s arms.

“Not quite.” He walked jerkily through the uneven ground.

At the height of summer, the fields had been ploughed and waiting to be re-sown. Her dad picked his way through, careful not to jostle Clarke too much. They reached the other end of the field and stepped onto the woodland path. Though more narrow, it had been trodden flat after years of dog walkers and visitors to their little town. Clarke’s dad readjusted her in his arms and set off at an easier pace down the path, until he came upon the large oak tree.

Crumpled below sat a sorry looking man. A hat kept the sun off his face, and a rusted old lunchbox with Captain America on the front held a few coins. When Clarke saw him she clutched her daddy’s jacket tighter, burying her face in his neck.

“It’s okay, honey,” he said.

He walked them up to the man, but he didn’t seem to notice them, either asleep, or wanting to be left alone.

“Excuse me?” her dad asked.

Sighing, the man took the hat from his face. He spotted Clarke immediately, and smiled a gappy, black toothed smile. “Why hello, little miss.” He looked up at her dad, his smile fading. “Oh, I’m sorry if I upset her. I didn’t want no trouble, sir.”

Jake reached into his back pocket with one hand and pulled out his wallet. He handed it to Clarke. “Honey, how much do you get for lunch money?”

Clarke was confused. He gave it to her every morning, he knew. “Five dollars,” she said, holding up a splayed hand.

“Okay, can you get that out for me?”

Clarke did as she was asked, not without holding onto her scrunched up confused look, fishing five dollars from his wallet and handing it to him. Her dad thanked her, then returned his attention to the man on the ground.

“You asked my little girl for her lunch money?” As lost as Clarke looked, the homeless man nodded dumbly. “Did you say please?”

“What?” the man asked, baffled.

Her dad turned his attention to Clarke. “Did he say please, Clarke?”

Clarke tilted her head, but nodded. He smiled, then leaned down and placed the five dollars into the tin.

“Wha-thank you! Thank you, sir!” the homeless man cried, grabbing for the money.

Her dad waved the man off, turning back the way he and Clarke had come. He walked up the path, putting Clarke down and taking her hand in his. They moved together in silence, Clarke’s hand raised above her head to keep hold of her dads, until she finally spoke up.

“Daddy, why did you give him your lunch money?”

Her dad smiled to himself. He stopped, turning and kneeling down in the grass before Clarke. She looked up at him with big blue eyes, and he got that smile like he did before. “What I’m about to tell you is important. All right, Clarke?”

She nodded.

“The world is full of a lot of different people. Some are lucky, like your mom and me. We have people like you to take care of us.” He chuckled when she puffed up with pride. “But there are some people out there who need help. That’s what your mom does every day at her job, and I do my best as well. But you don’t need to be a doctor to help people. Sometimes they just need you to believe in them, okay, sweetheart?”

“Okay, daddy.”

* * *

 

Clarke started awake. Pale blue light washed over her desk as her laptop hummed. The web page she’d been looking at, some link her biology teacher had put on his student page, glared back at her. She blinked the tired from her eyes, rubbing them until the heaviness weighing down the backs of her sockets decreased a little. She reached for the ice tea she’d been drinking earlier, to find only the melted ice at the bottom of the cup. She drank it anyway, grimacing at the weak tea flavoured water, but at least the dry taste was gone.

A little more alert, Clarke put her head in her hands. She hadn’t thought about that day since it happened. Well, that wasn’t quite true. She remembered all the details she wanted to and smiled fondly; her tiny hand engulfed in her father’s giant one, the sun speckling his smile, the woods she walked through every day going to school.

She remembered the day she’d been walking home when her mother called, frantic, distraught. She remembered dropping her school bag and tearing through the trees, uncaring of scratching twigs and roots waiting to trip her in her desperate race home, her neighbour already waiting to take her to the hospital.

She’d been too late to say goodbye.

When she went back to those woods she found her finished art project ruined. She wanted to care that it was wrecked, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t feel anything inside. That had been the last time she’d been to the woods, and she’d sat and stared at the remains of her project until the rain came and washed it away.

Clarke rubbed her eyes again. The glow burned, insistent and unforgiving, so she partially closed her laptop. Her desk was washed in light, her fingers shadowed by the pale blue. She wished her thoughts could be so stark, so easily switched off or identified in glaring obviousness. She needed to think about something else.

She opened her laptop back up and closed the biology teacher’s page. She closed the lecture page as well, leaving only a newly opened Google tab, ready to be searched.

She stared at it.

Distraction required a new train of thought, but her mind kept going back to that tree. That day. She shook her head, scrambling her jumbled thoughts, and typed the first thing that came to her mind.

Homeless Population of Virginia.

Along with countless links to web pages on the Homeless Population, articles, Youtube videos, Vines of kids doing good deeds and references, pictures bombarded Clarke’s screen. Men huddled at corners, woman sitting in front of stores. Kids, no older than Clarke, were sitting in groups under bridges, along blocks. Some had dogs, some had cats, and some of them had animals that made Clarke’s skin crawl. Some were alone, unable to find even the most base companion.

The older the person, the more sorry they looked. It was interesting to see, the young’s joyful freedom morphing into a regretful clarity of a wasted youth.

Clarke wondered if her Homeless Hustler was among the elders, if he’d been young and wandering. She wondered if he regretted, or if he lived.

She searched through reporters going street to street, interviewing homeless people. She read each transcript. Those reporters, fresh from college and given the grunt work, were just like the people who dumped their unwanted change in those poor beggar’s tins. Never seeing the person, only the opportunity to impress, excel, patronise or show off.

No earlier than four in the morning, Clarke found him. He was snapped in a photo, hunched in the background, glaring at the floor while the reporter had his arm thrown over a younger, smiling homeless man in the foreground. She read through the entire article, each location, all the references, until she found a name.

Marcus Kane.

Clarke leaned back in her chair. She had a class in the morning, an eight am class on DNA structures. She needed to go to bed.

So she spent the next half hour Googling everything she could on Marcus Kane. As it turned out, there were a lot of people named Marcus and Kane. She had to sift through a lot of wrestlers thinking Kane sounded cool, or business men named Marcus. Actors with stage names and estate agents.

And one homeless man with interesting origins.

Clarke jotted down all relevant information in notes, studious and precise as countless lectures could teach her to be. Satisfied, Clarke shut down her laptop, pocketed her notes in her bag, then turned off her lights. She slipped into bed, feeling better than when she’d first woken.

She had something to do tomorrow.

* * *

 

Her eight am almost killed her. Less than three hours sleep could do that, but lucky for Clarke she was used to sleepless nights. She had that one class, then an afternoon shift at the pharmacy. Being on her feet for six hours didn’t help, but the walk home energised her, fired up her mind. He wasn’t going to get her this time, her head was hers and he wasn’t allowed inside.

She reached the cross street and there he was, sitting at his corner like he always was. His bowl before, like it always were. Clarke marched right up to him.

“Hi, me again,” she said.

He looked up, bushy eyebrows scrunched together for a moment, then his face cleared. “Why if it isn’t little miss. Med School.”

“Ha ha, no,” Clarke laughed dryly, moving to his side to let other walkers go by. “Actually it’s Clarke Griffin, and I’d like to talk to you.”

“Saying your name to a man who scammed you? Someone didn’t learn about stranger danger.” He smirked up at her, and Clarke had to force herself not to roll her eyes.

“It’s not strangers when I know your name as well, right, Marcus?” His face dropped, eyes widening. He didn’t move, but Clarke saw his body seize into a statue. “Marcus Kane, to be correct, right?”

“How’d you find that out?” he finally said, voice gruff.

Clarke shrugged, going for casual. But a victorious smile spread across her cheeks.”That doesn’t matter much right now. What does matter is that you have quite the interesting story. One I’d like to hear.”

Marcus grunted, a glower so intense it could burn a hole directed towards the sidewalk. “We all got stories kid, doesn’t mean I’m gonna share mine.”

Clarke shrugged but she could see her smile still unnerved the man before her. “That makes sense, I mean why would you want to divulge your childhood? Must of been pretty nasty spending twelve days on a boat with your parents getting into this country. Any storms during the trip?”

Marcus was on his feet in an instant, bowl in one hand, Clarke’s arm gripped in the other. The change spilled onto the sidewalk but he didn’t bat an eye. “Look, kid, I think it’s time you shut your mouth.”

Clarke’s heart jumped into her throat. For a moment she thought her presumptions that he wouldn’t hurt her because they were in public were rash. She took a breath, forcing her heart to slow down, before she looked at the hand that was likely going to leave bruises on her arm.

“I think it’s time you let me go, before a pretty young damsel like me starts to become distressed.”

Marcus chewed on his lip, jaw clenched. He let her arm go, his fist clenching. “What do you want?”

Clarke made sure she didn’t rub the soreness from her arm in front of him. “What I want... is for us to have a conversation.”

Marcus’s angry expression dropped. “Wh-what?”

Clarke ploughed forwards. “Is it so surprising one person wants to talk to another?”

“For a guy like me? Yeah,” Marcus said. He shifted uncomfortably, his standoffish demeanour gone and replaced by closed shyness. It was amazing t see how quickly the rug had been pulled out from under him, and how quickly he became uncomfortable not having what he was used to.

“I just want to talk.” Clarke gestured to a bench by a bust stop at the side of the corner, then put her hands in her pockets.

Marcus reluctantly went with her, sitting at the edge of the bench, his hands in his lap. He looked ready to bolt at any moment, so differently from the relaxed, scruffy demeanour Clarke had remembered seeing everyday for a year.

“You won’t get any money just for getting me deported, kid. Paying off your college debts will have to happen another way,” he gruffed as he settled down on the bench.

“That isn’t what I wanted to talk about,” Clarke said. She was making enough to support college and her apartment on her own. She didn’t need to get her money from him or anyone else. “I wanted to talk about you. Your skills, what you did before you became... uh...”

“A bum,” Marcus deadpanned. He eyed her carefully, lifting a hand to scratch his scruffy chin. He sighed. “Why you wanna talk about me?”

Clarke shrugged again, this time genuinely. “Why does anyone want to talk about anything? Interest.”

Marcus didn’t look very convinced.

Feeling like she was losing him, Clarke carried on. “If it will make you more comfortable, we can start from when your life started here? Your first job?”

Marcus ducked his head, and Clarke could see the outline of his tongue running along his bottom lip as he thought. He shut his eyes, sighed through pursed lips, then opened them again. “I was a burger flipper at a nothing diner in my home town all through high school. My _American_ hometown,” he added pointedly. She smiled, shifting her hands in her pockets. “It wasn’t even a chain. Daisy owned that diner till the day she died, then they boarded it up until it became a subway.” He scoffed. “Daisy wrote my reference when I went for an IT job.”

Clarke tilted her head. “You’re good with computers?”

Marcus chuckled, surprisingly genuine. “Now, this was back in the eighties, kid. I was, what, nineteen? Computers were not like they are today. But I liked coding.” His smile turned wistful, his eyes going back years. “It inspires, young woman. You have to dream something up, then create it from nothing, using only a keypad and your mind.”

“Like a pencil and a piece of paper,” Clarke murmured, her fingers flexing around an imaginary pencil.

Marcus arched an eyebrow at her. “I suppose,” he said. “I applied for computer programming at college, but I had to drop out during my first year.” He shot Clarke a cautious look, then seemed to shrug to himself. “Turns out my parents didn’t do the best job getting my documents in order. I ran out of there before they could put the pieces together.”

“What did you do after that, Marcus?” Clarke asked, shifting again.

“I prefer Kane,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders as he leaned further back into the bench. “I did what any kid running would do. I came here to disappear into the city. I got a job as an IT guy for a computer store. It was nothing, a child could fix the frozen screens and internet viruses those idiots managed to get.”

He went quiet, but Clarke saw the way Kane’s smile softened, heard a slight huff as he chuckled to himself. “You met a girl?” she asked, smiling at him mischievously.

He chuckled again. “Yeah, yeah I did.” She remembered talking like that when she loved someone. She hadn’t talked like that for a long time. “She was perfect. God, kid, I can still remember the way her smile tilted on one side so high she winked without knowing it. I first saw her when I was called in to fix a dead beyond repair computer sold by our store. She worked as a waitress at the diner. I took one look at her and knew I was gonna marry her.”

Clarke was almost too awed to ask her next question. “Did you?”

“Yeah,” Kane sighed, the contentedness breezing into guilty in the one breath. “We lasted six, almost seven years, but it got just too messy for me. I wasn’t happy being the IT guy at a store, feeling unfulfilled, so I bolted. Made off with nothing but the clothes on my back and this bowl.”

“Not your shoes?” Clarke asked, and Kane shook his head.

“Couldn’t find them.” He stared at the ground for a long moment. “I left her everything I could, but when I kept trying to get a job better suited for my skills, no one would hire me. I was shooting to high for a college drop out.”

“And you ended up on the streets,” Clarke finished. “But why not simply get another job? One like you had before?”

Kane shrugged. “Do you know what it’s like to feel like everything’s been taken from you, kid? Well, when you’re the one who let it go, it’s even worse. Everything that happened was my fault. Including letting my pride make me into... this.”

He swung his arm across his body, letting it slap into his lap with a defeated sigh. Clarke didn’t say anything else, waiting in case Kane had anything else left to say. But he didn’t offer any more information, make a sound.

“So you finished high school?” Clarke asked, hoping maybe changing the subject would bring Kane out of the harshest of memories.

Kane nodded. “Yeah. Pretty high up in my class too. College could of been a breeze if I’d gotten to finish.”

Clarke adjusted her hand in her pocket again. “Can you tell me how high?”

They talked for another half hour. Surprisingly, everything that Kane had to say was fascinating. Understanding his paranoia opened Clarke’s eyes onto a man who never knew his place in the world. Kane had fought and kicked his way through his childhood and almost grasped a future, only for it to be ripped from his fingers. He was a soldier who’d forgotten how to hold his weapon. A warrior who’d forgotten how to fight.

When it began to get dark, Kane stood from the bench. “I think I’ve said all I can, Miss. Griffin. And I think it would be far too dangerous for you to be walking around the city in the dark.”

Clarke nodded, standing as well. “You’re probably right.” She thought about offering her hand to shake, then decided against it. “Thank you for talking to me.”

Kane eyed her for a long moment. “You’re a weird one kid. People don’t want to learn the life story of a guy like me.”

Clarke smiled. “I’m not most people.” She began to turn away. “I’ll see you around, Mr. Kane.”

The title brought a small smile to his face, and he nodded his head at her. “I’ll be here, Miss. Griffin.”

Clarke waited at the cross section, crossed the street and headed up the road towards her apartment. Once she was sure she was out of sight, she took her phone out of her pocket and switched off the recorder.

She didn’t have an essay due for another week, one she’d already finished and proof read, but she still had more work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and Kudo's are appreciated, please keep them coming along with all your guesses! Maybe try and figure out what Clarke is up to!


	4. Beauty and the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loving the feedback, guys! Keep it coming, and I'll keep the chapters rolling out!

Clarke never thought finger blister from typing could be a thing until she was surprised she didn’t grow any after her weekend. For a full two days she’d stared at the screen of her computer, crafting and writing. She was used to days filled with essay’s, nights filled with revisions, but a weekend of essay’s, and then her project on top, had her nearly dropping on her feet from exhaustion, or walking into walls from screen blindness.

Her dad always used to tell her if she got to close to the TV she’d go cross eyed. If he’d told her she’d be blind she might of believed him.

Whether it was worth it or not would soon become clear, as she marched towards the college library.

It wasn’t the best Library. Clarke liked to believe it had an old soul quality to it, but really, it was just old. The first thing that hit you was the smell when you walked in. Must and ageless pages could gather quit a scent when the Library hadn’t been renovated since 1974. It made the solid room stuffy quickly, and with just a few windows that only opened a few inches, the room would become suffocating long before lunchtime.

Clarke took an unconscious breath as she opened the squeaky door. Seven tier bookcases, stained by years of reapplied wood varnish, filled the room to almost bursting. The stacking system was neat and precise, each shelf head labelled with what it held and any subgenre beyond that. The immediate shelves covered text books for every class imaginable. Tables for studying created a fork within the Library, four, murky red, uncomfortable looking plastic chairs surrounding each one.

To the left was everything in fiction, from kids and nursery rhymes, through to crappily written YA, ending in erotica, covered the shelves, all labelled and shelved appropriately without room for mixing anything up that may cause a scandal. To the right stretched every piece of non-fiction imaginable. Wars were covered that Clarke never even knew happened, and if she ever had questions on her reproductive system she had a place other than the internet to go research. She imagined there were more stained tables and ugly chairs buried further into the Library.

She wondered if this place had outlets, or did the students have to sit and wait the three to four years their degrees took to earn waiting for the computers to start up, and then the next two of their masters waiting for internet explorer to open.

The floors were carpeted, a rather ugly green that felt like pine needles and sandpaper if she touched it.

She went straight to the front desk and rang the bell. The _ding_ echoed, shrill and piercing, in the library. When no one answered, she rang again.

“I’m coming!” barked a voice that had Clarke’s blood running cold.

A chaotic mess of black hair poked out from behind a shelf. Books were piled in the bronze arms of the disgruntled looking man, far too  many most people would be able to carry at once. His knit midnight blue sweater sleeves were rolled to the elbows and a pair of thick black frames sat at the end of his nose. He was focused on not dropping the books, scrambling to keep them in order as he plopped them on the desk. He looked up, curls strewn across his forehead, and his eyes widened behind the frames. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me?”

She sneered back at him. What was his name again? Joseph?

“The feeling is mutual,” she snipped.

He rolled his eyes. “What do you want, princess? Something missing from you palace library?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, the beast I read to,” she said back, then considered him. “Though the beast was far more charming.”

“Cute,” he muttered, tone as dry as the wood desk. “Seriously, what do I need to get you so you’ll leave? Unlike you, I have work to do.”

“You’ve seen me in my pharmacy uniform,” she defended, growing hot around her neck.

He arched an unamused eyebrow, leaning over the desk so he could look down at her. “When I was coming back from my second job? Yeah, I remember.”

She glared at him as he smirked. How dare he assume she didn’t work for her own. He had no right to know she was a full time student and working more hours than part time should be labelled, but god she wanted to shove it in his face.

Refusing to let him get any deeper under her skin, she reached into her bag and pulled out a USB drive. She placed it on the desk, sliding it towards him. “I need something printed.” He opened his mouth, so she kept on. “I don’t have a printer. I couldn’t afford one.”

He scoffed, picking up the disc. “Right,” he muttered as he inserted it into the computer. Thankfully, it was already on, so she only had to wait ten minutes. The man before her (Just Joe, maybe?) would let out little huffs and sighs as he stared, willing the monitor to whir into life faster. As his fingers began to tap on the desk surface, Clarke was getting ready to strangle him.

Then his glasses lit up with the screen’s light and he huffed out a ‘finally’. It was the first thing Clarke would of agreed with him on, until she saw his eyes widen, then narrow as they darted across her document.

He ripped the flash drive out of the computer, all but hurling it her direction. “No. I’m not printing that,” he practically snarled at her.

“Wha-”

“I’m not printing that!” he snapped again, gruffly. He reached under the desk and pulled a sign out, slamming it down onto the desktop with a resounding bang. “Get out.”

WE HOLD THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE

Clarke’s jaw dropped, staring at the sign, then at the man behind the desk. He could of only read the first line, how could he decide from that how much he hated it. She grabbed the flash drive, hastily stuffing it into her pocket. “What the hell is your problem?”

“Annoying blondes interrupting my work,” he growled back, picking the books up from the desk again. “Thank you for coming to the university library. Have a good day.”

He stomped off before Clarke could say anything more.

* * *

 

Clarke found the corner after stopping by the Copy Shack. Thanks to the asshole librarian/bar man, she had to pay to get her sheets printed. Who even was this man? Why was he everywhere? She hated the thought that she might run into him again today. What would he do next, rip up her sheets?

Kane was easy to find, back at his corner, hustling away. This time it was iTunes vouchers, but she saw that the prices were low, nothing higher than ten dollars. She liked to think that he was feeling guilty about stealing people’s money, but it was more likely he hadn’t been able to find any higher priced cards.

Believe in people. That’s who she was.

She approached him as he waved off some guys who were the definition of stoner, from the white guy dreadlocks to the Cheeto stained Bob Marley shirts. She could let that go.

This time when Kane saw her, he frowned slightly, standing straighter, readier. “Back again?”

“Yep,” Clarke said, trying to be chipper. “And I have something for you.” When he brightened up, she quickly added, “It’s not money.”

His smile crumpled. “Way to bring a guy down.”

She forced herself not to roll her eyes as she pulled out a stack of pristine white papers. She held them out to him, but only let him take the one on top. He took it, scanning the page.

“What is this?”

“It’s your résumé,” she said, smiling proudly. “I recorded our chat on my phone, and used it to type it up. Everything is on there: Qualifications, experience, and even a creative little paragraph on what you can bring to a workplace. You’re going to take them and hand them in to every store, restaurant or bar with a help wanted sign.”

Kane stared up at her, eyes wide. “And why would I do that?”

Clarke’s brow furrowed. “To... get a job, obviously. That way you can stop hustling, get your own roof, buy your own food.”

Kane shook his head, sighing and chuckling at the same time. “Look, kid, that’s cute that you went to all that trouble, but if I wanted a job, wouldn’t I of gotten one by now?” He leaned against a building wall, crossing his arms. “And besides, who would hire a walk in looking like me?”

He began to chuckle again, shaking his head at her seemingly stupid intentions. It boiled something in her blood. She clenched her fists for a moment, then let them relax with a deep breath.

“Fine. I tried to play nice.” She pulled out her phone and held it up. “This holds our entire conversation. Every dirty, _foreign_ , little part of it.”

Kane’s amused expression fell, replaced quickly with horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, but I would.” Clarke prayed he wouldn’t see through her bluff.

Flustered, Kane gestured to himself. “And how do you think this will go down when those guys see me coming in?”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Nice try. You’re going to go to one of those five dollar hostels, take a shower, shave, change clothes, then meet me at this corner so we can go job hunting. Don’t worry, all the contact information is for me, so I’ll know if you get an interview.”

She never thought she’d be more happy to be given a boy’s name than today.

Kane was shocked, to say the least, stunned speechless was a closer guess. But Clarke didn’t care. Her blood was pumping, her confidence on high she hadn’t felt since getting away from her mother’s grip. She whirled around, heading up the street at a brisk pace.

“Where are you going?” Kane called after her, voice breathy, like he still hadn’t caught up to what was going on.”

“One hour, Kane!” was all she called back, disappearing around the corner. 

* * *

Despite the long walk to the Keg, Clarke was still pumped up, high on the adrenaline of getting shit done. She’d gotten a lazy bum off his ass, now it was time to beat a bully. She stormed through the front doors, bypassing the greeter. It was the same girl from the night before, stammering as Clarke breezed right by her.

She found the manager, talking to a man seated at the front table. They were laughing at something the seated man said, but it seemed this manager recognised a pissed off customer when he saw one. He quickly excused himself from the conversation, approaching Clarke before she could disrupt his diners.

“How can I help yo-”

“I need to speak to one of your employees,” Clarke said, her high still raging. She was empowered, and as much as she hated the particular cliché, working in retail herself, she would use the Customer is Always Right routine until she was blue in the face.

The manager’s brow creased. “I’m sorry?”

“One of your barmen was very rude to me the other night, actually, he was downright disrespectful, and I demand you do something about it, or I will have some very scathing things to say for my food blog readers.”

The manager, flushed recognising the threat. Twitter annoyed the hell out of Clarke, but it had its uses. Not that this man needed to know she’d never even attempted to write a review of anything she’d eaten. She didn’t even Instagram pictures of her food.

“I am so sorry for your treatment, Miss Griffin,” he said, voice harried. “Do you have a name”

“Yes!” Clarke exclaimed proudly. She’d remembered it while she waited for her sheets from the Copy Shack (though she was annoyed she hadn’t remembered it earlier). “His name was John Murphy.”

The manager’s face sobered and he nodded, sighing heavily. Clarke wasn’t surprised this server had had complaints before. “Ah, we’ve had complaints about him before, though never from a customer.”

“Really?” Clarke asked, genuinely surprised.

“More like from the staff he works with.” The manager grimaced as he signalled the greeter girl over. He whispered something to her, and she whisked off with a smirk on her face. The manager turned back to her. “He has issues... listening to the boss.”

That didn’t surprise Clarke.

What did surprise her was the lanky, pale faced boy that came slinking out from a back room. His pale eyes glittered irritably, light brown hair hanging limply across his forehead. It was enough to knock the fight right out of Clarke, and stunned silence filled the gap.

“What?” the boy snapped, not even bothering to hide his sneer. He was good to customers?

“This lady has a complaint about you,” the manager said, trying to keep the fed up tone from his voice.

Clarke stared at the stranger. “He’s not John Murphy.”

The server blinked, looking at the manager when Clarke didn’t say anything further. “Is that the complaint?”

Clarke flushed. “No!” She could feel the weight of the stares on her. “He isn’t John Murphy.”

The server tapped the name tag clipped to his back shirt. “Read it and weep.”

John Murphy.

Clean as black and white, but Clarke shook her head anyway, ever defiant. “He isn’t the man that insulted me.”

John’s face suddenly went white, if that were possible. He turned to the manager. “I’ve got this, boss,” he said, voice flat.

The manager seemed happy to get away from this conversation, and waved John off with a huff, returning to his patrons. When John was sure he was gone, he took Clarke’s arm and led her to the bar.

“The guy who you’re getting bitchy over, was he a big guy? Curly black hair? Air of condescension?”

Clarke almost started a new argument over John’s description of her attitude, but decided against it, settling on a tired, “Yes.”

John rubbed his face with his hand. “That was a buddy of mine. He doesn’t work here, he was covering for me, must of used my name tag, too. I was...” He quickly checked his surroundings. “I was with a girl, well, hopefully, she’ll be my girl soon. Don’t tell the manager, he thinks I was sick.”

He blushed, almost looking shy. He quickly shook it off, bringing his sneer back to his face. “He works at a bar across town, skeezy kind of place, so he jumped at the chance to get this kind of pay. Got a lot of tips too, bastard.”

Clarke didn’t care for John Murphy’s jealousy. This was the second time she’d been humiliated in this restaurant, and wanted nothing more than to get out of there. But she had one last question to ask. She knew where to find this man, but this time she was going to be ready.

“What’s your buddies name?”

John seemed to consider this for a moment, probably thinking about his friend’s interests. Then, he shrugged it off, happy to give up any remaining favours, smirking at the thought of revenge for his lost tips.

“Bellamy Blake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who guessed right? I don't think anyone did. I guess I'm just that good. Haha, jokes.
> 
> Anywho, keep those comments coming!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are always welcome! Drop a comment any time to tell me what you think!


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